


The Kiss

by Bryn Lantry (Bryn)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-01-01
Updated: 1997-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:18:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bryn/pseuds/Bryn%20Lantry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake needs to shoot himself. Avon has to let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> printed in the zine 'Forbidden Star Two', editor Judith Proctor, 1997  
> In my late style and among the three or four I'm happy with.

###

In his cavernous old troop ship, Blake sat locked in the master cabin, cuffs about his wrists. Time to do his duty. He'd had three days for acquiescence, for patience. The question was Avon.

He lies to me, why? Orac detected me, and unless Orac's given up interference these days, he'd have counselled Avon to remove the threat. But Avon keeps on about a neurochemist. Can't knock away his crutch? I haven't lied. Just had the bad news stuck in my throat.

Stiffly, his age catching up with him, Blake bent over to the speaker and demanded to see Avon. This ship had been in the hanger, and the only furniture in the cabin was the sleep slab where he sat and a chair. Blake pulled the chair close.

The door slid for Avon. Aged too but no different, his chaste, corrupt face. He mesmerised me and I did my damnedest to mesmerise him, with my great faith in him, or my vanity about being important to him. He can hate me, as long as I help him so he can't forget me. And here he is for this. I'd go away and suicide elsewhere, but he'd think me negligent after he's crashed his ship over me.

“Hello, Blake. I hope I'm not here to uncuff you now we're in space, I like you in them.”

His artless sensuality. My dreams, to be strict. He means, you can't do anything silly in cuffs and if you're after the key you have me to persuade. Blake told him, “We may have to argue about that.”

“Why not?” Skirting the chair, Avon leant next to the porthole and glanced outside. Baroque, those gloves at his waist. In his dowdy technician's blues when I met him. “Argue away,” prompted Avon. “You say I can trust you, do you?” A quick, pungent grin. “Is that your argument?”

“I think you know it isn't.”

“Not the game of I know what you're thinking. After two years apart it's difficult to play.”

He's harsher. And he's fatigued by the evasion. “Yes, and we've danced around the truth for three days. I surmise Orac has acquainted you with the truth? Of what has to be done. Or am I to be your prisoner forever?”

“I needed your bounty alias for flight clearance. You need a mental clinic.” His teeth gleamed. “Years too late.”

“Avon, is a neurochemist the plan? If you're anxious, my mind control is unconscious and neatly targeted. I never noticed, nor Jenna, therefore I have the freedom to do the job.”

“You're being ambiguous.”

His shapely black and silver against the grey metal, like a painting, hard to tear the eyes from. “You're being courteous.” Unperturbed, he stated what Avon wasn't going to. “I have to be dead, Avon.”

“Ah. Suicide?” His face didn't change. Mechanical, as the Liberator crew had teased. “Is for the gutless.”

No, he isn't being courteous. He's in denial. “Even in my situation?” asked Blake.

“In your situation, suicide is for the guilty. To reminisce, you had the same whim once, before thinking twice. I'll leave you to think twice, our pilot has cracked ribs.” He pushed off the wall. About to walk out.

Blake stopped him. “Avon, this charade is no kindness to me. I'm not guilt-stricken for being Servalan's creature since Jevron, I'm outraged. We've warned my six undergrounds ahead of reconquest. Now left to do in defeating Servalan, my knowledge must be buried with me. Dainty, you used to say, when I wasn't keen to face what had to be done. This isn't dainty. I need it resolved.” And for my next trick I'll huddle up to him.

Avon's feet hesitated. The left to go or the right to stay. His right heel went down, then he dropped into the chair Blake had positioned for him. “No, it isn't dainty. It's messy.” He met Blake's eyes, after days conversing with the scar on his cheek. “I don't envy you.”

My hero. The last time I manipulate him. “But in my situation you'd do –?”

“To be undainty,” answered Avon, bracingly callous, “I'd blast my brains out too. Why I left Vila on Tarl, for his tender sensibilities. I don't arrest you without investigating the choices. But I thought I'd have a neurochemist go into them with you.”

“Redundant.”

“Were it merely you being a traitor, Blake, I'd lock you up forever. To keep me in arguments.”

“Tempts me.” Hearing him out, Blake swam in his lively eyes, the slant of hair across his forehead, elated in him. I haven't once fought against my love, as an enemy to me. At the end you know, I knew at the start and in between.

“Alas, it's idiocy. You were an idiot, Blake, but you didn't drivel. Locking you up in an asylum, forever or tentatively not, I don't do against your protest.” There Avon had his parameters down, and nodded his contentment with them.

Understanding his spectre, Blake told him his own. “As usual I'm the other way around. I don't mind the mental problems, with a chance. But my instructional chemistry can't be cleaned out. I'm to be treated as disloyal. I am disloyal.”

“You don't care if you're mad. You don't care if you're dead. You care if you hurt the rebellion. Isn't much of a glorious end, though.” He glanced over the rough gear Blake had on. “Is it?”

I'm honoured. “Maybe not. At least we're agreed on the means.”

“Is my agreement a factor?” queried Avon. Thrown back in his chair, a curvy thigh up to sway.

Blake thickened richly in his trousers. How on earth? For three years? But my spiritualising is rusty. “I'm alive,” he pointed out.

“And cuffed.”

“I can use a gun in them. I can get a gun in them, from Tarrant or yourself.”

“Now you're just boasting, Blake.”

He grinned into Avon's wry countenance. Since he memorises my repartee, I'll be sentimental. “To give away a secret, I've hoped to have you a factor again. Not what I daydreamed about, though you have saved me from a fate worse than death. I know I'm rash, Avon. I knew I wasn't wrong, but with you I know I'm right.”

“I may be wrong.”

“I know you're not.”

Avon's forehead skipped in ambivalence. “Orac agrees, to make a cheery trio.”

“Never was fond of Orac.” Next stage of negotiations. “What did you say to Vila about me?”

“I didn't give him any promises. He whined at being left behind. But when you were under mind control on the Liberator you bamboozled him and he locked me up.”

“You were right not to risk your other crew,” Blake told him. “I ought to before Tarl, not to risk your allies.”

Avon's black arms were sprawled, his shiny eyes alert. “Your head.”

Timing negotiated. Instructions to go, but no urgency there. “I'd have liked to catch up with Vila. But perhaps less upsetting.”

“We're at Tarl in sixty-two hours.” Flat and taciturn.

“Tarrant said. Disdaining my slow engines.”

“Fast enough for your purposes.”

“Yes, a spare craft for our army. You need spares on GP.” At his dodge, Avon stared leadenly out the porthole. Twitched his fingers. Is he going to drum them? The vacancy, the hush of the cabin crashed down on Blake. Yet what liberty his. What recklessness if he weren't in space. My last hours with him. Blake leant closer, joining his cuffed hands under his chin. “I've scarcely had a chance to ask you, Avon, about yourself since we lost touch.”

“Hah. You haven't lost your touch.”

He creased his eyes and kept quiet, his old intrigued love up and running. Give me a clue about you, Avon. I know nothing but that you're crusading yourself these days.

Avon had on his deadpan, or his sternly serene beauty. Then it cracked, as though Blake had thrown a stone into a pond. “I'm tired of your games, Blake,” he yelled.

Wincing, Blake averted his eyes. “I daresay you are.” I'm being possessive.

Avon spoke up, no longer raucous. “Lack of sleep.”

“A trying three days,” answered Blake to the deck. He's played machine through them. Go on playing. Had you last night and you were sweet, but then I'm a dreamer. “I suspect I've mistaken the etiquette.” With that he lifted his head.

To see Avon's eyes dry and glary. Tired, and driven to rage under the tension. “Orac insisted you were to be shot on sight in ignorant bliss. I decided to leave you a choice of a kind.”

“Shot on sight in a tranquillised dream. Orac's ignorant. Easier for me to, Avon, I don't have to live with it.”

“Forgive me shouting at you.” Stilted and glaring to the side of Blake.

“Forget it. I don't envy you either.” Why did Avon have to be picked on for the job? Had his metaphysical arms around my neck on the Liberator. “Death is tricky to do yourself.” Spare him the suspense, not ruin his strength. He's consented, don't drag it out. Blake was about to pursue his lead-up.

When Avon did. “Blake, this is fantastic etiquette. But I owe you to say. I don't guarantee that within sixty-two hours I won't decide to lock you in the brig. Then you'd have to use your arts on Tarrant, and I've threatened to eliminate him before. The time he meant with his remark about his deja vu. Over your head. He meant I've lost two ships after you. The last time I misjudged. Seeing what I want to see, as the lady said. I had credence in the neurochemist. You're warned.”

For my urges I did that to you. “My mistake, Avon. Quick is decent.”

Avon shut his eyes. “Ah. Being a hero. If you had any sense you'd get the key and cuff me.”

His sullen bottom lip was a torment to Blake. Am I so brutish? “No, I'm being suicidal enough for the purpose, Avon. Last week I was clamouring for death, here it is, no complaints from me. I haven't enjoyed this past year. Between the dirty work and me fanatical to do it. I've enjoyed seeing you again. Nobody but the people who joined up on a prison ship before my renascent fame can't be enemy agents. But the nostalgia is cruel to me. I go at once.”

“I haven't flipped yet,” he muttered.

Flipping. Known as grief, Avon. He'd grieved for two years and here he was in a metal box with nothing to do but to leave him again. His three days hadn't quietened him to that. There were instructions. “Cremate me, Avon, won't you?”

“Worried I'll go for the bounty?”

Don't taunt yourself. “I trust you.” Blake smiled, though he was too sunk in contempt to notice. Hasn't been tough. “I'm territorial about me, or my mystique.”

“That's your last epitaph, Blake.” Bottom lip truculent.

My great statement to him. My great understatement. Hasn't forgotten that, has he? “Yes, though clumsily I lived through the battle.” Then briskly he said, “Avon, this is quaint but I'm fed up with it. Try proportion. If you were it I'd blubber you to death.” The gist he'd believe.

Gaiety struck up in his face. Gleamy dark eyes, a rosy grin.

“Have I amused you?” questioned Blake, transported to heaven off-guard.

“I don't mean to laugh at you.” Avon hid a creamy tooth or two.

You're ravishing when you laugh at me. “I'd laugh at me if I knew why.”

“Your gallantry. It isn't that funny, I'd just forgotten you.” His eyes slipped past Blake, grimmer than ever.

Blake didn't laugh. Wail with futile love he did, but not aloud. “Right to unlock me, Avon?” he asked, after swallowing. If I were any younger I'd cry, and puzzle the hell out of him.

“I don't hate you.” His gaze wheeled back. “Two years ago you thought I did.”

“Don't you? Thank you.” Blake bit on a finger. And do you like me, precious, or just my epitaphs? He can humour my mush at the close. “You distinguished, through the clutter, I like you?” Memory seduced Blake. “Liked you on the spot.” With his standoffish interrupting between Vila and me. To think he started it.

“You were running me, Blake. For the crusade. As I'm in the crusade up to my armpits, flattery is outdated and you can be honest.”

Running him? Blake peered. Found none of his acrimony, more his brusque facts. “Translated, I didn't care, the rebellion needed your talents. You often thought so, but I've lately had the news you don't hate me.”

Avon steepled his fingers and ridiculed into them, “Mawkish to blame you for doing your work. I do have a brain to think with. I am not bruised.”

Not bruised? Not sentimental. But I did fancy him less suspicious, here at the eleventh hour. “I'm glad you rise above it, but I wasn't running you. Or not for the crusade. To be honest, as you say I haven't been, I liked the challenge.” Had an honest predatory ring. I'd be honest had I a desire to disturb you. “And I liked yourself.”

“Hooray for you.”

“Yes, hooray for me.” Undertook to love you in spite of your charm, and whilst behaving with leaderly disinterest. A quarter hour to justify your hating me. I'm proud. In the nuisance of the cuffs, Blake pointed at him his bitten finger. “You have a row on your own, for the practice. Free me, Avon, I'll free you. I did see your perspective, even then when I was young and vain. Have no doubt I see it now. I know I never said I'm sorry. I am sorry you're here.” That pitch, even he can't hear as hollow.

Through his steeple, in an eerie melody, Avon told him, “Don't cringe. Don't cringe to me, Blake. I hated your guts or I'd mistake you for God, don't you dare cringe to me.”

No, Avon. I won't if you don't like me to. Give me your gun and I won't. Shut up, Blake meditated on the hole under his feet he mustn't sink into. I spoilt him rotten. My guts are behind it, Avon. A trifle mortal? Least we both know I'm shortly going to forget he said that.

“Here.”

He saw a key in Avon's hand. Stretched his arms for his cuffs to be unlocked. Laid them aside on the sleep slab and chafed his wrists. Gun next, Avon. Where's your gun? When he'd waited past his chances of never cringing again, he angled, in an uncrushed note. “Tell Vila I've missed him.”

“Vila misses you.” Avon slouched back in his chair. “He needs your touch. Mine has him sulking.”

Avon, love, be kind. Stick to action. You know guilt is hard for me. “He used to sulk about my missions.” Blake massaged his kneecaps, as they were trembling. “More than skylarking in Freedom City with you.”

“Our latest skylark wasn't a skylark for him. He won't be hasty to skylark with me again.”

Vicious streak of sarcasm there. Blake dared to look him in the face. Into a turbulent squint. Isn't a chat he's after. “You have me interested. Going on with the story?”

“Weren't you about to croak?”

Changed my mind. I see you have a load on yours. “I'll hang around for an interesting story,” said Blake. “Since you're interested in sharing it with me.”

“I'm not.”

“Why start?”

He slurred, “Blake, your gun,” and slung his arm to his hip.

Must be too interesting for my godly ears. Trust me with your troubles, hadn't worked to date. “Keeping me in ignorant bliss, Avon?” he drawled. “For my sake, or yours?”

Insulting him worked. Avon slammed in his gun, in hatred. He even spat, “I don't give a damn what you think.” He told his story, curtly and meticulously. “Vila and I were in an over-weighted shuttle, losing orbit. Orac was aboard too. Orac's idea I space Vila. An idea I attempted to perpetrate, but Vila had hidden away. I quested, until I had the weight problem solved.” Then he inched his head side to side, his eyes as flat as fish's.

And don't forget he doesn't give a damn what I think. Which is why I mustn't dare cringe to him. Blake scratched at his cheek. “You've mellowed.” He mentioned nothing else of what he thought.

Until Avon said, inching his head, “That's right. You were dumb enough to ask.”

“I can't say you're quick on the trigger yourself. Orac had to have the idea. That machine enjoys instigating you to murder. Vila and I ought to mangle it between us. As we're both yet living.”

“Daydreamed, did you, Blake, of working with me again?” Avon smiled, like a dank fish. “I am instrumental, I can count up to two.”

“I know.” I'll rattle your teeth for you, Avon. “I count up to two the other way. And I pity you; jumping is daintier than pushing. Is Vila angry? He didn't jump, nothing to choose between you there. On the London he told us to lynch you, there he's as bad as you. You're number one but he's number two. He's lived with that for five years, there's nothing new.”

“I chased him with a gun. Is new.”

“And he ran away. Hiding from you is the same as lynching you. Both are abandoning you. I'd have trusted you not to push. Then you'd have done yourself none of this injury.” Blake wet his lips. “There's the old epitaph.”

After hearing him curiously, Avon pondered the dark outside the porthole. The half-moons of eyes Blake saw had a passion of thought. Avon touched his temple. “You trust me to be trusty just as long as you trust me.” His mouth glistened in humour. “That is what you said, Blake.”

A human creature again. “If you pushed me out into space, I'd think before my head popped, I mucked that up. If Avon hadn't had a whiff of my fear of him, I'd be there on board with him and breathing.”

A sly, eager eye. “Yet Blake, even were you scatheless, with your arts. There are technicians who'd have a gentlemanly argument with you about who is to jump.”

He's perplexed why I go to the trouble of him. What a sweetheart. “True. Weren't jealous, were you, of my new technician Deva? But you and I share an interest in moral controversy.”

“I'm a challenge? I thought I'd challenge you into hitting me.”

Blake stared dourly. He demonstrated no shame. “That you've forgotten me isn't grounds for telling me you thought I'd hit you.”

Now he had a smirk. “Estrange yourself non-violently?”

“No,” Blake barked in the anxiety of leaving him. “And not if you'd killed Vila either. Never – is that in short enough for you to understand?”

Avon's smirk vanished. So meagrely did he understand, he pulled his gun and tinkered with the ammo clip.

I've just about told him.

Our perpetual game of rights and wrongs. And what, when his conscience ambushes him he thinks, were Blake here he'd give up on me for this? I'm his hanging judge, am I? Is that why I'm God?

Not for the world. Blake told him, “I thought you understood about love, though you doubted I do.” He had no worry. If Avon's flesh crept, he'd stop twisting what he meant and then listening to him. “You were wrong.”

The familiar beauty of his face, caught in neutral suspense. The charge just clipped back in. Blake had lost his sense of time. Then Avon said, “I see, Blake. Late but I see.”

Enough to sting, his chest swelled. He's going to think, were Blake here he'd love me through this. “I'm happy you do.” Blake stroked his clammy hands together between his knees. “Don't know about you, but I've lost my tongue. Rare I daresay, perhaps we ought to seize the time.”

Avon gazed in a trance at his chest. “I'm planning my last meeting with Servalan.” Narrowed eyes. “I'll say to her, I'd be a monster had I not known Blake. But for you. You don't know yet what a monster is.” He spoke like a quiet demoniac.

Blake bent and picked the gun up from the grip in his lap. “Go outside.” Throaty but clear. “Child.”

He muttered, “I think I had in mind to shake your hand. As I understand, Blake, you'd care more for a kiss? And don't be meek about it or I'll rant at you again.”

With a tremor of worship Blake dropped the gun, dug into his jacket arms and kissed him. Greedy, deep and wet, in leaps with his tender heavy tongue. Ah yes he's cataclysmic, I'd never live through a fuck. He tugged his teasing bottom lip and snarled. Lapped deep down into him again and listened to the singing splash of tongues. Sweet as I dreamt. Lips sealed, he caressed against his. Stopped. And laughed in joy.

Through his cloudy sight, he saw Avon nod once, serious to the bone. He pushed at his arms.

Avon did as he told him. Rose and walked away. To the door. Out the door and gone.

Blake grabbed up the gun to his temple. He shot.

###


End file.
